


Megabyte

by doridoripawaa



Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Half-Vampires, Vampires, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-17 09:36:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29715210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doridoripawaa/pseuds/doridoripawaa
Summary: Patricia, a witch-in-training, simply wanted to go out and collect some herbs for her latest concoctions.She didn't expect to find herself in a garden owned by a vampire.She certainly didn't expect her witch blood to be particularly appealing to vampires, either.
Relationships: 707 | Choi Luciel/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	1. Daisy for Good Luck

**Author's Note:**

> This is 100% self-indulgent, so if you happen to enjoy it... I appreciate you.

“Daisy for good luck, heather to ward off crime,

And for a good night’s sleep, a bushel of thyme.”

A hum, a whisper, a murmur, a mutter,

The young witch did multiple herb names utter.

“Coriander and cloves to protect my home,

And while I’m at it, a bouquet of coxcomb!”

Skipping, dancing, with footsteps dainty and light

The fair maiden traveled alone through the night.

Briefly, she lifted her basket to take count

Of all the ingredients she did amount.

Her skills were still blossoming, but she believed

She would become the best witch who ever breathed!

After counting her petals, she breathed a sigh

She needed more mint to keep her spirits high!

A quick glance at the moon and her heart grew weak

Morning was nigh--she had scant time left to seek!

Scurrying up the mountainside, she made haste;

The young witchling knew she had no time to waste!

The scene awaiting was a sight for sore eyes

A garden full of flowers that touched the skies!

Roses, daisies, sunflowers, even mint leaves

More flora and herbs than she dared to believe!

A pinch on the arm dissipated her fear

This was no dream, but reality so dear!

Eagerly she journeyed to the foliage

Grateful, thankful that this was not a mirage

But a surprise found her in the floral maze

A curious, suspicious, handsome green gaze.

While she wished she could recall what happened next

Her memory faded once fangs met her neck.


	2. Tea and Toast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patricia wakes up in a strange room, and the only thing she can recall is a pair of mint eyes.

Eyelids that flutter like leaves adrift in the breeze.

Eyelashes that dance like ballerinas with ease.

Curtains covering the window, pulled in tight.

A room cast with the shadows of night.

Except her biological clock was convinced that hours had elapsed.

What exactly, in that period of time, had come to have passed?

“It’s morning,” the young woman grumbled as she slowly lifted her head. Her throat was unusually dry, but that only supported her suspicions that she had been asleep for a considerable amount of time. “It’s definitely morning.” She tried to push herself up into a sitting position, but excruciating pain seared through her body at the simple movement. Fire rushed through her muscles, explosions fired off in her nerves, and her blood seemed to boil.

“Easy, there.”

A gentle but firm hand pushed her back down into the bed, gently brushing her bangs out of her face as she laid her head back down on the pillow.

The… surprisingly fluffy pillow.

With a long, drawn out sigh, she allowed herself to sink into the soft surface and let the feather-filled interior cradle her aching face.

“You’re waking up. That’s wonderful.”

Waking up. Right. It was morning. Realizing that sitting up would be futile, the young woman tried to allow her eyes some time to adjust to the darkness. “Can’t we…” she murmured, and her throat protested as she attempted to speak. Just how long had she been asleep? “...open the blinds?” she finished in a rasp.

The gentle sound of a book closing blew near her ear, and she tried to turn her head to see the source. Even slowly craning her neck, however, sent that uncomfortable blazing running through her upper body. Feeling rather defeated and hopelessly frustrated, she just grumbled and stayed put. Her eyes tried to adjust to the dim light of the room, but her ears were able to track the soft echo of footsteps traveling from her bedside over to the faint glow of the window.

She wasn’t sure what surprised her more: the beauty of the man who pulled back the curtains, or the fact that the scene behind them was one of starlight and moonbeams.

“It’s nighttime still?” she breathed in disbelief. “Maybe that’s why I’m so stiff.”

“Still?” the man echoed, and as her eyes adjusted to the silver glow beginning to illuminate the room, she was able to distinguish a sorrowful smile on his porcelain face. “I am sorry to break this news to you, but…

You’ve been asleep for approximately 48 hours.”

“Two days?!” she cried incredulously, and her throat and vocal cords alike screeched in protest. Fueled by a panic-induced rush of adrenaline, she forced herself upright, but the resulting vertigo nearly knocked her back down into the bed. Still, she managed to keep herself sitting up, her grey eyes wild like storm clouds with the panic that swirled inside of them. “I… I have to get back. My herbs… Where are my herbs?”

The young man lifted a finger to his lips and then walked back up to the side of her bed. “Please lie down,” he murmured. “Your body clearly needed the rest.” He reached forward to gently brush her chestnut-colored bangs out of her eyes, and then he pressed the back of his hand against her forehead. “You’re still sweating.”

“D-don’t touch me!” the girl snapped, and she shrank away from his touch back down into the bed. “I didn’t give you permission!”

“O-of course,” he stammered, and at once he leaned back to give her more space. “Here, let me fetch you something to eat. You’ve been out for so long--”

The brunette snorted and flipped her body over so that she was facing the wall. Her constant tossing and turning was painful, but slowly her body was becoming numb to the pain, or perhaps it was subsiding now that she was awake and alert. “I don’t want food!” she snapped. “I want answers! Who are you, where am I, and--”

The loud rumble of a famished stomach cut through the air, effectively stopping her mid-sentence. “Okay,” she grunted, “maybe I  _ am _ hungry.”

Was that a  _ chuckle _ coming from this man’s lips? 

She would have whirled around to glare at him, but the pain was causing a fatigue that was dragging at her bones. Instead she just had to settle for huffing and puffing loudly, to alert him that she had definitely heard him.

“I’ll get you something easy to digest,” he offered. “Some tea and toast, perhaps. How do you like your tea?”

“Lots of cream, and honey. I expect honey and strawberry jam on my toast, too,” she replied coldly. “Then we’ll talk.”

“Fair enough,” he murmured, and once again she heard his soft footsteps reverberating as he walked towards the door. Much to her surprise, though, he suddenly veered and headed back to her bed, now on the opposite side that she was currently facing. “You can call me V, miss.”

“Patricia,” she muttered. “I’m Patricia. ‘Miss’ is…” Her eyes darkened. “It’s a little stuffy for someone like me.” Her gaze lowered to the silky sheets of her bed, and she could feel heat beginning to rise to her cheeks. Maybe she was still sweating, after all. “I guess… I should thank you, V,” she mumbled begrudgingly.

Judging from his tone, V almost seemed taken aback by her sudden change in demeanor. “I… I don’t think I’m worthy of your gratitude,” he replied, “but nonetheless, I will make sure you are taken care of, Mis-- Patricia.”

Judging from his tone, V almost seemed… sorry. She had many remaining questions, but he had done nothing but try to help her and listen to her requests thus far. Having lived on her own for so long, she had come to rely heavily on her instinct and her intuition.

And her intuition told her that V wasn’t a bad person.

Patricia dared to lift her gaze again, to try to scrutinize his face, to try to get a better gauge of the type of person he was. She could see his slightly protruding Adam’s apple, his slim chin, his thin lips, his slender nose, and... 

The young woman’s breath caught in her throat, and her heart stopped again for the second time in the past 48 hours.

She was staring into mesmerizing mint eyes once again.

“You… you’re the one….” She could feel her jaw drop open, and in her shock she was even able to ignore the prickling pain that shot up through her mandible.

“The… one?” V tilted his head to the side, and his neatly combed bangs gently swayed in front of his face. 

Minty hair, minty eyes… he _ had _ to be the one!

“From the other night… it was you in the garden…” Patricia murmured. “I’d recognize those eyes anywhere….” Her head was starting to spin, and despite her burning curiosity, she managed to convince herself to close her mouth and let her body rest.

But she kept her eyes trained on his, and even in her discombobulated state, she was able to detect a peculiar flicker of darkness flash across his eyes. Was it concern, trepidation, sorrow, or… 

Regret?

“My apologies,” he murmured. “I should have told you from the beginning. Yes, that was me in the garden.”

In her current state, she had no choice but to take his words at face value. Feeling satisfied for now, she nodded briskly. That was enough for now… almost. “Hey, V?” she asked. “Where am I, anyway?”

V, however, merely rose to his feet and turned towards the door. He turned to look over his shoulder and softly whispered, “Rest up, Patricia. I’ll go fetch you some dinner.”

Perhaps the ordeal of 48 hours ago had been too much for her. Perhaps the strain of trying to move and talk again so soon had been too much for her. Whatever the reason was, Patricia didn’t have the energy to argue, and she allowed herself to close her eyes as soon as V shut the door behind him.

~~~

“...tricia. Patricia.”

“Five more minutes….” she groaned sleepily, still half-dazed.

‘Wait,’ she thought suddenly. ‘I live alone.’

The brunette immediately jerked herself upward, only to fall flat on her back after her body screamed at her in protest. As soon as her eyes adjusted, though, she was able to pick out a vaguely familiar figure seated beside her bed. “Y-you!” she gasped. “V!”

V waved sheepishly at her and then scratched the back of his head. “It’s me,” he confirmed. “You really are a feisty young woman,” he commented nonchalantly.

Was that a criticism, or was he just trying to make small talk? “Well, you’re a mysterious young man,” Patricia countered, and she puffed up her cheeks in frustration. That display of anger only drew a chuckle out of her companion, though--which, in turn, made her even more frazzled. “A-anyway, toast. Toast and tea. I’m hungry.”

“I imagine you are,” he murmured, and he shuffled around to pick up a tray from atop the dresser behind him. A smile crept onto his face as he watched her eyes light up and her valiant (albeit fruitless) efforts to sit up. “Let me help you,” he offered.

“Less help. More food.”

V chuckled again and shook his head, sending his sky blue bangs swaying back and forth. “Please, I don’t want you to hurt yourself. Your body has taken a toll. Besides…” A scarlet hue suddenly rose to his face, and he added somewhat reluctantly, “you may be disappointed by the fact that it’s cold now.”

“Cold?” Patricia repeated. “H-how long have I been asleep? It’s still dark, so…” Her eyes flew wide open as realization dawned upon her. “V,” she murmured in a low voice, “please open the curtains.”

He hesitated.

“V,” she repeated, a little more forcefully this time.

“Will do,” he obliged, and he placed the tray beside Patricia on the bed before getting up and heading to the window.

The brilliant white light that burst into the room made him visibly recoil; Patricia, on the other hand, turned towards the sunshine like a sunflower seeking nutrition, light, comfort, and care. “It’s morning again!” she exclaimed. “How long was I out?”

“About another six hours since the last time we spoke,” V confessed. “I had to make about three pots of tea because I wanted to make sure it was fresh.”

At least he was considerate. “If you were considerate, you would’ve just woken me up!” Patricia whined. Nevertheless, he did go to the trouble to take care of her after…

After what, exactly? Her sleepy brain was still too groggy to recall. With a shrug she shuffled her hand out from underneath the downy comforter, although even just sliding her arm was surprisingly painful. Once she reached the crispy crust of her bread, though, her hunger managed to overpower her pain receptors, and she swiftly brought the toast to her lips, letting out a loud, audible “Mmm!” as she sank her teeth into its flaky surface.

“I’m glad you like it,” V told her as he headed back to his chair. “Can I get you anything else?”

Patricia shook her head, making her shoulder-length brown bob bounce up and down. “I can take care of myself. Thanks for looking out for me, though.”

“Is that so?” V murmured. “Maybe rest a little more, first,” he suggested, his tone somewhat… anxious. “I really don’t mind assisting you.”

“For now, I’ll take you up on your offer,” she sighed in acquiescence. “Once I can get up, I’ll be able to handle it,” she assured him.

He was fidgeting with his sleeve. Why was he fidgeting with his sleeve?

“Yes, well,” he began cautiously, as though picking his words very deliberately and thoughtfully, “I would ask you to please refrain from leaving this room.”

A cough. A splutter. A gasp. A heave.

Why on earth wasn’t she allowed to leave?

Patricia managed to finally swallow the sip of tea that she nearly choked on, and after coughing the excess liquid out of her lungs, she managed to ask feebly, “Please… won’t you tell me what’s going on?” A mysterious room. Over 48 hours of sleep. An unusually hospitable but secretive host.

V didn’t seem to have any intention of answering even that basic question. He turned around to the dresser again and plucked a wicker basket off of its surface. “I believe these are the herbs you wanted?” he guessed as he gently placed the basket on the pillow beside Patricia’s head.

“Uh… yeah. Thanks….” Normally, she would have been relieved to have all of her ingredients back. What was the point in having her materials, though, if she wasn’t even allowed to head home to brew them in the first place? V seemed like a polite, respectful young man; why then did he seem so… fearful? So hesitant? Did she misjudge him, or…? A chilling thought crept up in the back of her mind. Maybe V wanted to let her go home. Maybe, if V had the authority, he would have even escorted her back.

Maybe someone else was hiding behind that door and pulling his strings.

“V,” she began hesitantly. The tremor in her voice was frustrating, aggravating, infuriating, but in this physical and mental state, she couldn’t fight her anxiety down and fake some confidence. She would never admit it aloud, but the truth of the matter was simple: Patricia was terrified. “Is… anyone else here with us?”

Again. That dark cloud crept over his sky-colored eyes, like a storm threatening to break. “I understand that you must feel very confused right now,” he murmured. “I…” His voice trailed off, and Patricia furrowed her brow. He genuinely looked apologetic, but why did he need to be so reserved? Why couldn’t he just openly state what he was thinking? “No other people live in this house,” he finished, and he nodded firmly. “You and I are the only people here.”

Some of her anxiety began to subside, but she couldn’t shake that lingering doubt. Maybe it was doubt, maybe it was her instinct of self-preservation-- an instinct she had learned to nurture and to listen to after living alone for so long. “Then… aren’t you in charge, if this is your house?” she queried. Another question burned in her mind, but if she asked it… then that meant she would receive an answer, whether she liked it or not. She tried to push it out of her consciousness, but that instinct, that intuition, that survival mechanism still whispered to her,  _ ‘Are you hiding something that you don’t want me to see?’ _

“I simply want to ensure your well-being,” he replied. “You need rest.” As he leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs, Patricia got the feeling that that was probably the end of their discussion. They sat in silence for another moment, Patricia slowly eating her breakfast while V rested his chin on his hand, observing her curiously. “You have quite the sweet tooth,” he commented, and he blushed slightly as the young woman whipped her head around to glare at him.

“Some people like things to be sweet and straightforward,” she stated flatly.

A terse nod. “Indeed,” he murmured.

Silence again.

After Patricia finished her first piece of toast, the sharp squeak of a chair scooting back reverberated in her ears. She lifted her gaze from her tray to see that V had stood up. “I need to check something really quickly,” he told her. “Please… stay put. Your body must still be aching.” He smiled apologetically at her as she stuck out her lower lip in a pout. “I promise, I just want you to be safe. I’ll be back momentarily.”

She sincerely hoped he could sense her frustration in the vigorous way she took a bite out of her second piece of toast. She chewed slowly, deliberately, and stiffly, signaling that she was going to comply, but she was going to do so begrudgingly.

At least… she was going to comply until V exited the room and she heard his footsteps disappear down the hallway.

_ ‘Now!’  _ the voice in her head screamed at her. She had her breakfast, she had her herbs, and she had a clear head-- nothing was stopping her from leaving. Hastily she shoved the remaining half a piece of jam-slathered toast in her mouth, and with a tremendous effort she swung her legs over the side of the bed. The sudden movement sent a tingling sensation through her legs, but it wasn’t nearly as severe as when she first woke up in the middle of the night. On the contrary, most of her pain seemed to stem from when she tried to move her neck and her upper body. Reaching out with her free hand for her basket was more of a pain in the neck than it should have been, but she managed to sling it over her arm. Lifting her torso and rising into a standing position was a slow process, but with adrenaline, tea, and toast coursing through her body, she was able to get up and take one step. Then another. Even a third. Step by step, inch by inch, she shuffled towards the door. “As soon as I get home,” she murmured, “I’ll mix some lavender and comfrey, which should help my body and my mind.” Did she have any leftover comfrey? Would it be too risky to stop in V’s garden before she departed? Time was of the essence, after all; at her current pace, she couldn’t afford to take any stops, because V would easily catch up to her. With a resigned sigh, she shook her head free of that idea-- speed, speed. She had to be quick.

Finally she reached the door, and she nestled her basket into the crook of her elbow. Even as her shoulder screamed in protest, she lifted her hand to the doorknob and gave it a twist. The door had squeaked when V entered and exited, so she was very careful as she pried the door open, making sure not to prompt any sound from its rusty hinges.

Darkness in the doorway, much to her chagrin.

Trepidation in her stomach, but time was running thin.

But even in the blackness, much to her surprise,

Patricia made out a pair of brilliant mint-colored eyes.


	3. Sir and Madam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A maze of Dr. Pepper and Honey Butter Chips.

Hours. Days. Weeks? He couldn’t recall.

Maybe about eleven days, all in all.

A trail once blazing had since gone cold.

He had to pick it back up before the scent grew old.

“It’s been ages since I’ve caught any traces of them.” A low whine rumbled from a figure hunched over a keyboard, one hand drumming across its surface and the other combing through his knotty russet curls. “Sneaky little rascal.” Numbers, colors, and lights flashed across the multiple computer screens stationed in front of him, reflecting off of the panes of his wide-rimmed yellow-and-grey glasses. 

But beneath that glass, his golden eyes were dim, and deep, dark bags sagged under his eyelids. He knew when he got exhausted like this that he was especially vulnerable, especially susceptible, especially… weak.

Either he needed to find some sort of sign to pep him up, or he was going to need an unhealthy amount of caffeine to keep his spirits alive.

With a deep sigh and a ruffle of his messy hair, he resumed typing vigorously, clicking and clacking and whirring and whizzing across the keyboard. His cursor danced erratically across the page as though it were fueled by half a dozen cans of Dr. Pepper, with artificial energy threatening to overflow.

As a tall, brooding figure slammed the door open and smacked the light switch, sending a blinding, harsh, artificial light washing over the room, the reality it revealed was… even worse. Empty cans littered the floor, while half-eaten bags of honey butter chips decorated his desk. Dark sepia stains showed where he had spilled some of his sticky, sugary soda, while the ants traveling in single-file motion from the corner to the bag at the foot of his chair carried out the remnants of his latest bag of greasy, salty, saccharine-sweet potato chips.

“Jesus Christ, 707, what the hell have you been doing in here?” they demanded immediately, a horror-stricken look washing across their face as they took in the full view of the room. “Is that a fucking video game? Are you playing a fucking video game right now?”

“It’s a drone~” 707 replied nonchalantly with a wave of his hand. “I’m programming a little drone friend to help me with my work, since you won’t help me, Miss Vanderwood.”

Vanderwood snorted and strode up behind the redhead, glowering down at him as they approached. “You’re the best at this tech shit,” they conceded, grumbling. “I just do the dirty work.”

“Now now, don’t be so hard on yourself, my little pup,” 707 chirped as he leaned back in his chair, lifting his gaze to meet Vanderwood’s. “You aren’t shit. You’re just mediocre.”

“I’m gonna bite your head off one of these days,” Vanderwood retorted, their voice cold and sharp as stalactites dropping from the ceiling. “You are the reason why I smoke, dammit.”

707 gasped melodramatically and clamped a hand over his chest. “I have that much of an impact in your life?” he asked, and his lips stretched out into a cheeky grin. “Gosh, Miss Vanderwood, maybe you should just propose already--”

Vanderwood kicked the back of his chair, sending 707 careening forward with a loud “oof!” “Maybe you should do some field work and get out of this rat hole,” they muttered, folding their arms over their chest in a (somewhat flustered, somewhat irritated) huff. “I think I see a cockroach in the corner.”

The redhead spun around in his chair until he was facing his companion properly. “Oh, I see two of them,” he murmured, and the laughter in his eyes died out, with a chilly gleam taking its place. “Right there,” he began, pointing at Vanderwood’s chest, “and right here,” he finished, twirling his wrist to point back at his own.

“No, I mean, in the corner, there’s seriously some kind of nasty roach eating up your leftover potato chips, you slob,” the chestnut-haired young adult told him flatly. They didn’t move at all when 707 jumped from his seat with a screech, but the slight upturn of the corners of their mouth revealed that they enjoyed 707’s panic, if only just a little bit. “Huh. So there is something that lights a fire under your ass.”

“I hate roaches,” 707 whined, scurrying over to the corner of the room to grab a broom. “Tell me where it is and I’ll get rid of the sucker.”

“Speaking of suckers,” Vanderwood interjected, following after 707 to snatch the broom from his hands, “you’re supposed to be looking into that mountain village. They lost three residents in the span of a week, and if that rate continues, not only will the whole town die out, but our risk of exposure grows greater.”

The young man pulled down his glasses to the bridge of his nose, revealing the deep dark circles under his eyes as he stared straight up at Vanderwood. “The trail has run cold,” he informed them in a hushed whisper. “I’ve been trying to find them for approximately eleven days now.”

“Well try harder,” Vanderwood grunted, and they tilted the handle of the broom to point it squarely between 707’s pectoral muscles. “Get outside. Get some real food. Get some sunlight,” he barked, poking and prodding their partner with each (harsh) suggestion.

For a moment, 707 was silent, much to Vanderwood’s surprise. He pushed his glasses back up onto his face and stalked back over to his chair, falling over in a slump as soon as he reached its leathery comforting seat. “I’m really at a loss,” he muttered. “Not even God Seven is invincible, you know.”

“‘God Seven,’” Vanderwood muttered with a roll of their eyes. “You’re the farthest thing from heavenly that I’ve ever met. Making me clean your house, for one thing,” they gruffed as they began to sweep a trail of abandoned crumbs and haphazardly disposed-of plastic bags into a corner. “‘Honey butter,’” they read, squinting at the packaging. “You can’t even pretend to eat a vegetable and eat sour cream and onion or some shit? Actually…” Suddenly they furrowed their brow in confusion, in consternation, and if Seven wasn’t mistaken… in concern. “Should you even be eating this shit at all?”

Still no reply from Seven, except for the sound of clacking at a keyboard. His eyes glazed over once again as he scanned and scrolled through lines of code.

“Doesn’t this shit hurt you?” Vanderwood pressed. Still receiving no reply, they stormed up to 707’s side and waved an empty bag in front of his face. Despite their efforts, the redhead continued to type away and examine his computer screens, as if Vanderwood and their taunting chip bag weren’t even present.

His response finally came in a whisper. “It’s what I deserve.” Without any further elaboration, he continued to tack at his keyboard with one hand. The other crept up to his chest, and firmly he wrapped his fingers around the silver cross that dangled from his neck.

“Dude, you’re going to hurt yourself,” Vanderwood hissed, and they groaned as they crumpled up the empty bag between their hands and chucked it into a nearby garbage bin. “You’re hopeless.” With a resigned sigh, they began to pluck some of the discarded cans off of Seven’s desk.

Seven stopped typing momentarily, just to give another blase wave of his hand. “Madam, you shouldn’t worry about me so much,” he cooed. “I can take care of myself~”

“Don’t fucking call me that!” the brunet snapped, and they turned to cast a ferocious glare at the smirking Seven. “Call me ‘madam’ again and I’ll rip your throat out. I don’t care how good of a hunter you are; you’re pissing me off.”

Their companion exhaled sharply and shook his head regretfully. “Message received. Could you bring me another Dr. Pepper so I can get back to programming, sir?”

  
“Don’t ‘sir’ me either,” they barked. “I thought this shit ate your stomach up from the inside. How can you drink it so frequently?” Their mouth hung open for another lingering moment, as if they had another question to ask. A soft, sincere question.

But that would wait for another day. Vanderwood clamped their mouth shut and just ran a hand through their shaggy brown locks. “You and I both know you shouldn’t drink that,” they finished, cursing themself silently for concluding in such a lame manner. Some questions were better left unasked.

“Nobody else knows that,” Seven reminded them with a chuckle: a hollow, empty, fake sound. His hand finally slid down off of the cross, and he reached out towards Vanderwood with grasping fingers. “So be a doll and fetch me one, please ~ I’ll even clean up after myself ~”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Vanderwood grunted, but nevertheless their sympathies seemed to tug enough at their heartstrings to prompt them to walk (begrudgingly) to the minifridge in the corner of the room. “You really should watch yourself. You trust me way too much.”

Seven eagerly took the can of cola from Vanderwood’s grasp and popped the tab open with a satisfying hiss. “Thanks, sir.”

“I’m not-- forget it,” Vanderwood sighed. “Don’t forget what you are. Don’t forget what I am.”

“Partners,” Seven chirped innocently. “We’re partners, right?” He batted his eyelashes at his scowling companion, who just rolled his eyes. “That’s all there is to it.”

“We’re freaks of nature, then,” Vanderwood snorted. “Your kind and my kind aren’t meant to get along. If you weren’t such a talented tracker, you’d be dead by now.” They threw a stack of napkins down beside Seven’s mouse, and then turned around with a wave. “I’m heading back to HQ. Ping me when you find something.”

Seven took a long, deep, and deliberately obnoxious slurp of soda. “It takes a beast to find a beast.”

“Just make your drone, dammit,” Vanderwood grunted, and with a slam they left Seven alone once again to resume his work.

The gentle clatter of metal against wood echoed inside Seven’s ears as he placed the cool, half-filled can of soda on his desk beside the keyboard. His hand was trembling as he pried it off of the chilly surface, and even though he knew he would dread the sight, he slowly began to turn his hand around, so that the palm would be facing up.

A deep red coated his fingers, and the imprint of a cross was seared into his palm from the exact location where he had been clutching his necklace. The skin was still intact and not yet blistering, but he could see that it was beginning to crack, and that the shade of crimson was a little darker than the tomato color that had greeted him yesterday.

He needed to track down this vampire quickly, before he lost the energy and drive to do so.

“Maybe,” he murmured around another gulp of Dr. Pepper, “maybe field work isn’t the worst idea after all.”

From the Dr. Pepper, he took a sip.

From the plastic bag, he took a chip.

Work needed to be done, and he needed fuel.

His agency needed him, and he was just a tool.


	4. Mysterious Mint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flowers were great for apologies.

In her shock she stepped back, but she did not fall.

Against V she could assert herself and stand tall.

But when the figure stepped into her view,

She realized that this was someone entirely new.

A young man with white and fluffy cloud-like hair,

And mint eyes to which no aventurine could compare.

“Who are you?” Patricia demanded as soon as she could find her voice again. She could feel the hairs on the back of her neck begin to stand up as he shuffled forward slightly. “Why are you here?”

Unexpectedly, the stranger shrank back, edging away from her. Did her hostile tone actually manage to intimidate him? ‘Good,’ she thought, and she puffed out her chest with a renewed sense of vigor and valiance. V had told her that nobody else lived here; was this an intruder?

Most importantly…

“What are those?”

Patricia narrowed her eyes as she spotted something behind the newcomer’s back. He jumped slightly, startled, and he cowered backwards even more. A swarm of emotions swirled inside his magnificent mint eyes: diffidence, discomfort, disdain, dismay.

Disdain? She was the one who should be furious with him! What was he hiding behind his back? “I can see you’re holding something,” she spat out. “Don’t think you can hide from me!”

“I…” For the first time, he spoke. His voice was meek but melodic, low but lilted. It sounded like dewdrops on morning grass, like ice cream on a summer day, like wind whistling through autumn leaves, like roasted marshmallows on a winter night. “I wanted to… apologize.”

“Speak up.” Patricia scowled at him, but her initial ire was mutating into mere irritation. Not solely with him, but with herself as well. Maybe she could keep up her masquerade, in order to frighten him further and prompt him to reveal his secrets. Who was he? How did he get here? Why did he want to apologize?

“I’m sorry,” he whimpered. A soft blush flushed across his face. “I’m sorry.” He repeated his apology again, louder this time; he must have truly internalized her admonition to be louder. “I… These are for you.”

Blossoms. Blooms. Buds. A beautiful bouquet.

Roses, orchids, hyacinths-- a dazzling array.

Yellow, white, and blue, a mix of somber and bright.

Despite herself, Patricia’s smile revealed her delight.

“Flowers? For me?” she breathed. He extended his arms further and gently slid the stems into her outstretched hands. His fingers brushed against hers momentarily, and at once a shudder raced down her spine. ‘So cold!’ His slender, chilly fingers had a quality to them reminiscent of tiny icicles, and they caught her by such surprise that her body recoiled instinctively. Had he spent all night outside in the gardens? How else could his hands be so breathtakingly icy?

The contact must have surprised him, too, or perhaps her reaction had set him off; without a moment to waste he withdrew, pulling his quivering hands in towards his chest. He rested his palms on top of his left breast, where she could only imagine how intensely his heart must have been pounding.

  
After all, hers was, too.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, and his voice was again light and wispy, barely audible. “I’m such an airhead. I’m so clumsy.” He bowed his head deeply, and as he stood hunched over before her, she could see the slight tremors that were wracking his entire body.

Was this gentle boy truly an intruder? Could someone like him, who was practically made of snowflakes and clouds, really be a threat?

“You’re fine,” Patricia tried to assure him. Even though at his full height he was about a head taller than her, she couldn’t help but feel the urge to console him like a big sister might. He just had the quality of a timid young boy who needed reassurance from a role model. “These are beautiful.” Carefully she shifted the bouquet into the crook of her left arm, and with her right hand, she gently reached forward and patted his head.

Silkier than feathers, softer than petals.

Shining brighter than the richest metals.

His hair was gorgeous, but she was more amazed

By the smile he gave her when he lifted his face.

“Thank you for… being so kind,” he murmured, and he blinked at her affectionately. “You’re really special.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Patricia muttered, and she shook her head, hoping she could cast away some of the heat that was bubbling up in her cheeks and on her nose. Her bedhead was disastrous after sleeping for so long, and her thick brown bangs nearly smacked her in the eyes as she desperately bobbed her head. “Ouch. See, I’m an airhead too.” She managed to muster a laugh, but rather than laugh alongside her, the mysterious boy just blushed and lowered his gaze to the ground. He really was meek and mild, which only added to Patricia’s curiosity. “I appreciate the flowers,” she went on, getting back to the heart of the matter. “You said they were an apology, though. Why do you need to apologize? This is the first time I’ve met you.”

A subtle movement, but she saw it: he flinched. “Well, actually,” he began, and his voice fell back down to an airy, low murmur. He tugged at the frilly white collar of his shirt, and then he began to fiddle with the lapel of his magenta-hued jacket. “I’m sorry about the other night,” was all he managed to utter, before he looked down again, sheepishly.

“The other night?” Patricia couldn’t understand.

At least, she didn’t want to understand, but that nagging witchy voice in the back of her mind affirmed what she already suspected. She did understand, whether she liked it or not.

“That was you?” she blurted out finally, and her high-pitched shriek was clearly more than the boy expected. His head jerked up and he met her eyes for a split second, but then he looked away again and began to twiddle his thumbs and fidget with the blue rose pinned to his jacket.

Finally he dared to flicker his green gaze to her face again, and he allowed those emerald eyes to linger longer. “I mean, it was me,” he mumbled, and she could tell that he wanted to look away, that he was desperate to hide. But something--guilt, perhaps--kept his attention focused on her, even though it was painful.

And that courage rocked Patricia to her core.

“But it also… wasn’t me,” he added faintly, and with a sigh he began to twirl one of his pink-tinted bangs. “But it was… so… I’m apologizing,” he finished at last.

This boy was an absolute mess. He looked well-kempt with his neatly brushed hair and his iron-pressed jacket, with his floral adornments and his formal speech patterns, but internally… he was an absolute mess. He reminded her of a cauldron -- neat and shiny on the outside, but a bubbling, swirling, conglomeration of materials and muck on the inside.

Something else, however, was the true source of her unease. “But… but V told me…” Why did everyone here have to speak in riddles?

“V?” he echoed.

Just like that, the young man’s entire demeanor changed. His rosy face grew pale; his warm eyes grew cold; his soft fingers grew tense. “V,” he repeated. “He…”

He swallowed hard, and even that simple motion seemed to place strain on his thin, pallid throat. “I wouldn’t put too much stock into anything V says,” he uttered at last. Clearly, he had more to say than just that-- but the rigidness that encapsulated his body wasn’t prepared to let go of its grip quite so easily, and so those were the only words that he could manage to eke out.

“O-okay?” Patricia raised an eyebrow quizzically, but she didn’t have the energy to pry. In fact, the longer she stood here, the more her legs began to shake. Numbness was spreading upward through her toes, into her ankles, and beginning to reach her calves. Perhaps standing with locked knees wasn’t her smartest decision; she had been told countless times that standing in such a manner would just knock her flat on her behind, for she would pass out.

She should have treated those old rumors more seriously.

Finally the numbness, the tingling, the prickling spread up to the front of her shins, and she whimpered as her knees buckled and the room started to spin. A soft gasp left her lips as she stumbled backward, trying desperately to cling onto anything that could steady her. The bed was too low, the dresser was too far, and the guest--

Well, he had surprisingly acute reflexes.

With a large leap and a single swoop, he jumped forward and caught Patricia by her waist before she could tumble headfirst onto the ground. “A-are you alright?!”

The room was still spinning, spinning. She couldn’t quite get a grip on her bearings. But as the ceiling went back above her head and the tile returned to the floor, she managed to make out the figure that had rescued her from her less-than-graceful tumble. “I…”

Mint. Marvelous mint.

Patricia barely managed to snap her gaze away from his. She could have easily lost herself in those turquoise depths, but… ‘He probably doesn’t want to stare at my coal eyes,’ she thought bitterly. Dark grey wasn’t exactly an aesthetically pleasing color; she hated looking into mirrors. Why would anyone want to see short, scrawny, stringy-haired Patricia when people like V and this young man existed? 

She managed to straighten herself into a standing position, with the white-haired boy’s arm behind her waist to support her as she moved. Carefully he guided her back to the bed, and she collapsed with an “oomph!” onto the plush mattress and feathery comforter. “Maybe I got ahead of myself,” she conceded, grumbling as she turned to face the window and let the sunlight warm her face. Her body was still weak from whatever had transpired, and she had tried to rush the natural order of things.

Then again, defying nature was in her blood as a witch-in-training, but perhaps every now and then she needed a reminder that some of the laws of the world existed for a reason.

“A-anyway,” the boy stammered. He bent over to pick up the fallen bouquet, and shyly he placed it on one of her pink pillows. “My name is Ray. It’s a pleasure to have you here, Patricia.”

Ray.

He was a peculiar fellow, that was for sure, but at least he was polite. “Thanks, Ray,” she mumbled, feeling her embarrassment begin to wash over her like a wave. This was her first time meeting this angelic young man, and she was a disheveled, weak, bumbling mess. The thought of leaving such a pitiful, vulnerable first impression absolutely nauseated her. “I…”

Like the call of a crow, an alarm resounded in her head.

“How do you know my name?” she asked, and the fire returned to her core as she sat up to glare suspiciously at him. “I never introduced myself.” She folded her arms over her chest and felt a sense of dread begin to creep in her fingers and toes. “That’s totally not creepy,” she snorted. The only person here who knew her name was V, and he had insisted that they were the only two people in this house. V was the only one who could have possibly told Ray what her name is, but for that to be true, he must have known that Ray was living here.

Would V have lied directly to her face like that?  _ “I wouldn’t put too much stock into anything V says.”  _ Ray’s warning echoed in her mind like the echoes of a cry in an empty forest. That beautiful man wasn’t just mysterious-- he was a liar.

She didn’t know whether she should be more furious or disappointed.

Her body seemed to choose fatigue above all else; the final string that had been holding her up finally snapped, and with a heavy sigh she fell onto her back on the comforter once again. Her attention shifted back over to Ray, who had been silent ever since Patricia had called him out for his suspicious behavior. 

She didn’t know what she expected to see, but the expression of misery, of regret, of remorse, of shame… It was almost too much for her to bear. The droop of his eyelids, the sagging of his cheeks, the slump of his shoulders, the curvature of his lips: everything about him just oozed with sadness. Maybe, just maybe… Patricia had gone a little too far, been a little too acrid, stung with a little too much venom.

Every fiber of her being screamed out to her, begging her to end this sorrowful display in front of her. “H-hey, Ray,” she began timidly-- behavior that was rather unlike her. She could feel her cheeks growing hot as her brain raced through her vocabulary, trying to find the precise words to say that could ease his pain. She wanted to walk up to him and cup his thin, pale cheeks in her hands, tell him that everything was going to be alright. “Thank you?”

Oops. The rise in her voice at the end probably made her sound insincere; would he think she was mocking him? She did genuinely want to express her gratitude, though. This boy had gone to the trouble of picking out an array of flowers for her and coming here to personally deliver them. He wanted to atone for whatever he had done.

What… had he done, exactly? Every time Patricia tried to recall the events of that night, her head began to ache, her thoughts became muddled, and her blood began to burn. Maybe she should refrain from any kind of strenuous activity--mental or physical--until she was healthy.

Nervously she looked up at Ray, expecting to see his despair only deepen after her less-than-flattering expression of gratitude. Much to her delight, however, the corners of his mouth had turned upward in the faintest hint of a smile, like a wispy cloud on a bright, blue summer day. It was ephemeral and temporary, but it was there.

And that made it all the more magical.

“Can I get anything for you?” he asked hesitantly, pushing the tips of his fingers together as his gaze flickered around the room. He seemed to have trouble looking directly at her. God, did she look _ that _ bad? Maybe she should ask where the nearest washroom was located so that she could freshen up.

“Oh, I’m fine!” Patricia insisted, and she waved her hand dismissively. Fine? She was bedridden, she was sore, she was constantly on the verge of fainting, and she had slept longer in the past two days than she usually slept in an entire week. “I just--”

A deep but loud growl interrupted her, slicing through the air like an arrow. At once the witchling felt her face explode with heat as she realized that that was her own stomach, betraying not only her hunger but also her composure, desperate to make itself heard and known. “O-oh,” she mumbled. “I… don’t worry about that. I ate already!” She tried to laugh it off, but like an echo in a cavern, the rumbling continued.

Ray’s head jerked upward and he clasped his hands together. “I-I will fetch something for you to eat!” he declared. His eyes lit up, sparkling like little emeralds in his snow-white face. “What would you like? Are you a meat person? Do you prefer rice or bread? I can make a delightful omelette--”

“Rice sounds amazing.” The brunette perked up at the mention of one of her favorite dishes. “Maybe with little peas and carrots inside?” Now it was her turn to become flustered; he was generously extending his services to her, and she was taking advantage of him. ‘Well, in a sense, I am his guest,’ she tried to reason with herself. ‘He offered, so I’m not really being cruel.’ Witches got enough of a bad reputation already; she didn’t need to add “selfish” to the list of reasons for average people to hate them. “B-but really, I don’t want to be a bother,” she tried to add, but Ray was already heading over to the door, eager to begin his mission.

“Sit tight,” he chirped to her, and he gave her a gentle gaze that nearly made her melt. “You have to promise me.”

Right. She had already tried to disobey that order once-- he had every reason not to trust her. But he was about to leave her here alone, to put his faith in her. Somehow, sneaking out after V told her not to move was different. Something about Ray made her want to listen, if only because she feared upsetting him. Feared seeing that pitiful look on his face again.

“Please,” he pleaded, desperate for her to give some sort of affirmation. “Please do not leave this room. The Savior doesn’t know you’re here yet…”

Savior? “The… Who?”

His eyes grew wide inside his head, and a deep shiver raced through his entire body. “N-nevermind,” he stammered. “Just… please.”

She opened her mouth to ask more, but Ray moved swifter than she could speak. He opened the door and slid out without another word, and as the gentle click of the door closing sounded behind him, Patricia begrudgingly clamped her mouth shut.

Even without her promise, Ray had trusted her to stay put. If she had to guess, he didn’t need her reassurance because he had seen firsthand just how weak she was. She had been standing still--not even running, not even walking--and nearly fainted again. She probably would have been in even worse shape if Ray hadn’t been there to catch her, before she did something dumb like smack her head on the bedpost.

“Maybe I should just lay here for a while,” she muttered, but the thought of spending more time lazing around really rubbed her the wrong way. Patricia always asserted that she had too much energy for her tiny body to handle-- at just shy of 5 feet tall, she was particularly petite, but she had the spirit, strength, and sass to make up for it, right? “What am I without my personality?” she sighed. Being depressed was not her cup of tea; she needed to think about something else.

V, for instance.

V, who had told her that no other people were in this house.

V, who Ray seemed to know.

V, who had insisted she remain put in this room.

V, who had made no mention of a Savior.

Things weren’t adding up.

She wanted to investigate. She wanted to explore.

She wanted to roam. She wanted to find out more.

She sighed and tried to stretch and sprawl out on the bed--if she was going to stay here, she should at least be comfortable. But the sharp flash of pain that seared through her neck, spreading up to her chin and out through her collarbones, made her think twice about moving around too much. “Damn!” she hissed. Every time she tried to lift her arms above her shoulders, her neck sent those excruciating jolts through her body. “Why am I so stiff?” Maybe these pillows were too soft and didn’t provide adequate support for her neck. She flipped over and began to crawl over to the assortment of pillows at the head of the bed, and in her frustration she tried to fluff them up and stack them. “If I don’t sink so much, maybe I’ll sleep better.”

That would help her later, but what could she do now? “When V comes back, I’m making him give me a massage,” she huffed. Then she blinked a few times, mulling over that thought in her head. “On second thought, I don’t want him that close to my throat.” Could she trust Ray? He seemed awfully skittish--she probably didn’t want him rubbing her neck either. “If you want something done right,” the brunette grumbled, “you have to do it yourself.” She could barely lift her arms, but maybe if she could just lean in a way that would tip her shoulder low enough and give her opposite hand a little bit of elevation….

Patricia tilted the left side of her body and her neck tautened up: that side was definitely the source of her misery. Nervously she began to lift her right arm, and although her neck was tense, it wasn’t nearly as agonizing as when she moved her left arm. Carefully, meticulously, she raised her hand, trying to bring it up to the base of her neck. If she could just rub a little bit, where her neck met her shoulder, then some of the tightness in her muscles would probably ease away. “Right… there. Wow, that’s a serious knot!” Her fingers ran over a thick, swollen mass on the lower left side of her neck. It was tender to the touch, and she winced as her fingers even just skimmed the surface of her skin. “Did I sleep on a rock?” she muttered. Hesitantly she pressed her fingers in a little deeper, and she gasped aloud as fire blazed through her neck and throat once again. “Owww,” she whined, but she knew she had to keep pressing. No pain, no gain. She allowed her fingers to brush against her neck and try to figure out just how big this knot was; she was going to follow it until the pain subsided.

She expected a lumpiness, bumpiness, maybe even a bruise.

She didn’t expect her fingers to graze over what felt like a puncture wound.

“That’s--” she began, but her breath caught in her throat. Panic shot through her like a lightning bolt, as she tried to process what exactly she was feeling in her neck. Her fingers slid over what felt like a little divot, but as she gently slid her fingertip over it, she realized that was an inaccurate comparison. It was a hole. A whole hole. Holy moly.

And what was worse than a hole in her neck?

Two. Two holes.

Not far from the first mark was a second, of the same shape and size. “What in the world happened to me?” she breathed. She could almost hear her brain rattling inside her skull and her heart blasting against her ribcage. “Did I… fall in a rosebush?” Is that what happened in the garden that night? Every fiber of her being was clawing at her desperately, itching for answers, begging her to find her way to safety.

Yet all Patricia could manage to do was to rest her sweating, shaking palm on top of her wounds in an effort to protect them. To protect herself.

* * *

Flowers were a great symbol, but they wouldn’t suffice.

Ray had hurt her so, but she had been remarkably nice.

He stood in the hallway trying to regain his composure,

For if the Savior saw him panic, Patricia’s time would be over.

His breathing came in ragged gasps and his heart ached.

He knew that he would never be able to atone for his mistake.


End file.
